Not a hero,but a boy,or maybe something inbetween
by Howbrighthesky
Summary: [As well as the new signs of abuse there were old healed scars, jagged memories of hurt slashed cruelly across his skin. Spider man would take it all,all of the hurt he could, so you didn't have to...]-spoilers-Deadpool to make an appearance in later chapters. Avengers trying to hire Peter. Graphic depictions of violence,canon-although characters juxtaposed differently.OC Villains.
1. Chapter 1

Not a hero, just a boy

-or maybe something in-between

The sun shone, arcing over the tall reflective buildings of new york city and igniting the glass panes, the Avengers tower a tall blinding giantat it's centre. Tony stark stood with his cup of black coffee in hand, at the top of the tower, surveying the city- He wondered.

spider man had yet to accept their offer of becoming an avenger, the boy was young, a teen from what he knew, and he worried about him.

Tony knew what it was like to be trapped beneath a building, it's weight slowly crushing you,breathing restricted, and becoming frantic,but still holding on, so that one child could escape. Not really knowing whether or not you were going to survive-but staying anyway.

Holding on to that one beam, with your last strength, and in the quiet. Feeling that sense of release, a closeness to that feeling of redemption, letting go, and knowing that in that moment you are perfect. Immortal. A universe away from that last breath. In a loop milliseconds away from death,and happy. Because you have hurt so many, killed so many, and all of the destruction will end with you.

-and then life comes rushing back, and with it comes pain, and sorrow, and regret, that you could have worked harder, been faster. done _more._ and had your perfect end to your chapter, your small chapter. Before you have been hanging on for too long, and become someone-something, you weren't before.

A good hero is neither good nor evil. He teeters on the edge of self destruction.A constant struggle within himself,and fighting thosconsidered evil, to act the hero that people say you are. Wishing for the quiet, but hanging on, because fate asked you to. The world asked you to.

But you are just that same old confused distressed angry person you always were, but with a fancy name and a costume. Pretending you are what people say you are, a hero, not just some broken guy in a suit trying to make the world better, to heal the wound within his own heart, by healing the world. One broken building at a time…

-Peter-

Peter woke with a start,tumbling sideways out of bed and landing with a dull thump on his appartment floor. "aaargh" the pain in his side stabbed at him. The space around the wound like red hot flames licking up his body. Peter got up slowly on his hands and knees, his left arm curling protectively around himself. A sharp stabbing pulse had his hands balling into fists and his white knuckles pressing into the floorboards beneath him. The pale skin stretched tight over them and the muscles in his jaw working.

Bright blue eyes opened lit with pain. Spider man-Peter Parker,17 raised his head up to the ceiling in a silent lament to his pain, his naked torso heaving with stuttered breaths. He let his head hang beneath his shoulders. His dark soft locks bedraggled and sad looking-like a mo hanging over his eyes. And his strong lean shoulders stretching.

He shuddered out a quick succession of choked out breaths-after a while beginning to gain control over his abused body. The teen stood unsteadily, leaning against the nightstand heavily and regained his breath. He limped over to the small television in the corner of the room using the bed post and his small work table to get there, all the while curled protectively in on himself.

He switched on the news with a grunt, as the edited,prim voices of the reporters at CNN chirped out at him.

Falling backwards into the wall and staggering along it to the bathroom door, he half stumbled half fell through the opening, refusing to loo in the mirror, Peter knew he looked like hell- He started fumbling with the controls for the shower.

The youth stripped off his underwear. It took a few tries as his side hurt with every movement, and his torso was also littered with dark welt and bruises-turning it from smooth milky white to ugly green and purple. Marring the marble skin.

He stayed in there for a long time. Bracing his arm against the crisp white tiles, ignoring the searing pain in his side making his fingers twitch and watching the water going down the plug hole turn red.

He let it run down his face, locks sodden and floppy hanging down his cheeks. If you where to stand behind him you would see big ugly poppy bruises trailing down from his neck to the base of his spine. The former covered in large finger shaped bruises. Ugly welts etched into the pale skin, apart from the unmarred patches, unnatural on such a youthful body.

As well as the new signs of abuse there were old healed scars, jagged memories of hurt slashed cruelly across his skin. Spider man wouldtake it all, all of the hurt he could, so you didn't have to.

He shut off the water, lamenting at the loss of the steady warm stream of water enveloping his sore limbs. Stepping carefully out of the shower, hair wet and clinging to the sides of his head, he reached for the cabinet. Hand jerking back as if burned at the sight of his marred neck and chest in the cabinets mirrored doors. He frowned sadly at the split lip and nicked skin just above his eyebrow. Dark circles ringed his eyes and he was a sickly pale.

Peter watched his pale reflection in the mirror reach for the split in his lip,and rest its fingers upon it. Frowning had re opened the cut and he removed his fingers, watching with fascination as he removed it and it was wet with crimson blood, turning it in his fingers. Before quickly-frantically,wiping it on a blue towel on the rack next to him. The youth reached for the cabinet again. This time succeeding in opening it. Thisrevealed three rows of shelving filled to bursting with various medication. The teen reached fluidly for the middle pack and popped a fewwhite capsules into his mouth swallowing without water.

Towelling himself off gingerly Peter limped over to his bed using the furniture in his small apartment to cling to as he literally fell through the space 'I should probably phone in sick…' Mused Peter morbidly, the numbness in his mind matching the numbness in his bodyas the pain meds kicked in. His head was fuzzy, like cotton wool was stuffed in his ears.

He dressed slowly, wincing every once and a-while as he was reminded of a small cut or welt, all the time refusing to acknowledge the rawness of his side. It was a large cut, more like a slice, long and jagged, tapering up from his waist all the way up to his third rib.

 _It needed to be stitched_.Peter frowned, his brow furrowing and the skin between his eyes stretching. This caused the cut in his brow to twinge and the youth huffed out an annoyed puff of air through his nose-Peter wasn't even allowed to be annoyed without being reminded of his fight the night before, with mercenaries out for blood, specifically _his_ blood.

It was quite a shock to be targeted in this way. Perhaps it was Tony Stark's formal request that he join the Avengers. It was plastered all over the news and had been talked about on several chat shows already. The main concern was that Spidey wasn't up for the job, using no weapons but webs and fighting small crime, not saving the world. But also there was concern that without spider man protecting people from mugging and assaults in the city, as well as mad power hungry scientists that he somehow knew how to disable, there would be utter had happened before.

The avengers where the poster boy heroes, the kardashians of super beings. They sat in their tower most of the time, playing with their toys and swooped in when there was a man was the one who cleared up the messes left behind, the dregs of society.

-Rapists, murderers, henchmen took to murder and robbery. Those who hated the heroes and directed all of their anger at those who can't fight back, or interfere with their dastardly plans. Those easier to hurt.

They took out their anger on Peter.

Peter sat heavily, still shirtless, reaching blindly for his nightstand and rifling through the top draw. His fingers brushed something- _there._ He pulled out a small black box, opening it with closed eyes and a sigh, baby blues opened simultaneously-the box clicking assuredly with a startling finality. the only sound other than the insistent busy traffic rioting 50 floors down and the hum of static from the television.

The 17 year old took a deep breath, eying the curved mettle of the tiny surgical needle. He grabbed hold of the spool of thread tucked neatly next to the rubbing alcohol and emergency Codeine, and pulled.

He would need two tries to seal the weeping wound. Peter cut an arms length of thread, placing the scissors back in the kit with a clatter, his hands had started shaking. This was going to _hurt._

Peter scrubbed a hand roughly over his face, his knee bouncing an unsteady rhythm against the floorboards. Sometimes peter longed for the times when Aunt may would place a band aid over his skinned knee, petting back his unruly hair and kissing the injury away.

Or even the times when he was a little older and he'd gotten into a fight at school, and she cast a stern glance his way at the dinner table, but said nothing.

Long ago where the days where he could just have a break, give himself time to recover from knocks and bruises, or illness. Long past where the days when if he lost his job, or got into a fight -he could go home and be safe in his Aunt and Uncle's home.

Uncle Ben was dead, and he'd had to leave the house he'd grown up in. The house his loving Aunt still lived in. It was getting too hard to hide his long nightly absences, and the blood on his clothes, and the disappearing medical supplies and alcohol.

At first aunt may thought he'd been drinking, but soon found out he was using it on his 'd caught him pouring it over a glass wound in his side. He'd dismissed it as the school bully Jason's gang fighting with him and throwing him over a broken sheet of glass near the science the time they were slowly demolishing buildings for the new block. She had believed him, and wrote a strongly worded letter to the school about bullying, leaving out any names as peter has requested.

But he couldn't forget the hurt in her eyes when she'd seen the wounds, and her sorrow for not being able to protect him, like she, not he was to blame for them. Aunt May was shocked to see that he had already removed most of the glass himself, leaving only a few medium sized pieces that she removed herself. Her Nephew remained silent the whole time. Again his pain tolerance was a cause for concern...

 _Peter gritted his teeth._

 _Hey, it's me(: I just wanted to thank everybody for their reviews and encouragement and reassure everybody that I will be updating very soon. I have a lot of college work to do so I'm writing in the evenings when it's too late to work and I need a break.I have a huge plot planned but I'm not giving anything away, I'm just going to say it involves a lot of action and will be impossible to guess. My writing has been described as realistic, I like to push aside that Disneyfied view that making things a film can give you of a character or world, and push aside the veil of glory to remind people of the person beneath the name Hero. Peter is a hero, but he was made that way through a severe complex about his own goodness and insecurities about losing those he loved. but also because of this realistic view the story will pick up in the middle with some happy parts and humour._

 _I'm really enjoying writing it so far and have a couple of pages written, although I'm toying with the problem of maybe posting too soon as I feel there is less content to the new chapter. nothing really has happened yet either and I'd like to promise the third chapter will be much more exciting! It just wouldn't be good for the story if I skipped strait to the action (: well until the next chapter!_


	2. Chapter 2

Peter gritted his teeth

With quivering fingers Peter dropped the now threaded needle back into the medical box . He plucked the rubbing alcohol from the tin,pausing whilst gripping it in both hands,thumbs resting over the lid and chin dipped. His knuckles slowly turned white,eyes closed as if in prayer-before twisting the cap desperately.

His nostrils flared,breath coming out in a quick bullet train succession of puffs. Peter poured some over a cotton wool ball from the box, splattering it all over the floorboards and his bare feet,with a wet splash, it was cold,numbing, and he was reminded that this should be quick,cold,impersonal, the needle as sharp as the knife that had warranted It's use.

His body was apart from him, something to be used. Abused. Ignored . If that's what it took to save his soul then so be it. his blemished innocence from the first life he took in a righteous blunder to reclaim some semblance of justice on his uncle's behalf.

If that's what it took to save another innocent,another person who without his help would be scarred for life, or die,someone with a loving family to support…

Someone who made the best pancakes,someone so kind hearted and hard working it _hurt.S_ omeone like uncle Ben. Then it was worth it. It was worth it all. What peter didn't think about was whether or not _his_ lost innocence was,his scars,both physical and mental.

Or his growing disregard for his own safety, and dehumanisation inside his own head for others opposing him, not seeing villains as something breathing, alive. Just a creature out to hurt you and others. not a bleeding heart, just like him.

That's what happened when the only real human interaction you have is with a person with a weapon, out to mame,until the mindless slashing and cutting becomes a cold rhythm. Like an unnerving dance, conducted in a dark dimly lit room casting five shadows, and with knives instead of ribbons, deadly yet oddly captivating.

He picked up the needle, sharp and cool between his digits and wiped it all over with the cotton wool ball,sterilising it. He made a knot at the end of the surgical thread running through its eye, smoothing it vertically in the air by running his fingers down it and letting gravity do the rest. He laid it gently flat across his bed- holding the cotton wool ball in his other hand over the top of his wound and _squeezing_.

Cool alcohol poured over the wound, sending lightning hot pain searing through him. Peter clutched the bedcovers beneath him tightly, until he could no longer feel his fingers. Sweat spread across his brow making it clammy and damp,and his stomach muscles twitched, curved planes and sinew twisting and pulling making the wound pull open in the middle, like a crazed smiley face.

The teen quickly fumbled for the needle,pressing his left hand slowly with just as much pressure on either sides of the split, and pinching. Until there was no mocking smile, only a noncommittal flat line,he let out several guttural noises during this process, hating himself more and more with each sound of pain he unleashed on the world. Ashamed of this even when no-one could hear him.

The first prick of the needle was excruciating, the raw flesh pulling as it was squished inwards and the push of sharpness curving round the seam like daggers, or ice exploding beneath his skin like a frozen chicken's in the microwave.

It was worse coming out, the needles sharp curve nicking his raw sinuous flesh on the way out and pulling it all together was sweating by the end of it, and then let out a little breathy laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. How such a small object could bring about so much pain when he had been shot -stabbed, and burned in the past and hardly felt a thing. Although adrenaline did play a big part in this...

Adrenaline was kicking in now, the large thick area about a third of an inch deep at it's shallowest and half an inch at it's worst a mammoth task to stitch safely, and without splitting open once more. Blood and fluid was leaking out of the closed part now,and dripping down his side. Peter contemplated wiping it away with the cotton wool, but he couldn't stop and remove his hand now. If he did there would be nothing left to hold the wound together as he stitched, and the one stitch he had made could come out, snapping and causing even more damage.

He repeated the process,lips sealing together in a tight line as the line in his side was also sealed. By the time he was done there where thick globs of crimson leaking down his side, slowly stopping as it had no real place to go any-more now the slash was sealed.

The youth sighed, now that there wasn't any gap that could be pulled open with every movement the pain was in fact skin felt taut,neat, and he felt human for the first time since obtaining the wound. Peter unwrapped some sticky gauze he'd forgotten about from his med box,and after cleaning away the mess covering his side with several cotton wool balls and alcohol-which stung like a bitch thank you very much- he stuck the gauze securely onto the wound horizontally in strips until it was completely covered.

Peter a little dizzy and lightheaded from the pain and blood loss caused by the stitching,he limped over to his dresser in the corner of the room- fumbling with numb fingers at the second drawer down and pulling it open with a sigh. Inside where an impressive amount of gauze and wrappings- on a larger scale than in his kit.

He took a larger incredibly long piece out,holding it with the left arm where the wound was(he didn't think it would be a good idea to stretch that side of the body too much) and used the other to bring it around his side back to the prone didn't tie it ,he just kept on wrapping and wrapping until his side felt supported and he could tuck the loose end securely behind the layers of tight bindings he had created. Peter rolled his shoulders a bit experimentally, hey, that felt much better!

But he found himself very tired all of a sudden, his head light yet fuzzy around the eyes and a slight throbbing at the back of his poured himself a glass of water from the nightstand,and lied back in bed, sipping it until his eyes grew heavy and he placed it on the night-stand, It didn't quite reach it though, and fell with a smash, scattering sharp shards all over the floor-he'd clean it up later. Pulling the covers up to his chin, peter fell into a deep sleep.

He woke to the sounds of the answering machine " Now I don't know whatcha think you're playin' at kid. but I needed that story on my desk yesterday! -there was a rhaspy coughing sound, when the voice returned it seemed distracted -wait Shirly's Ill? really? not just fakin' ill to see that stupid little brat of hers- well I don't care if!-beep"The recording ended.

From the bed there came a startled snorting sound, as the miscellaneous lump at it's centre begun to de-tangle itself. Out came a leg-and then an arm, that twisted round and fumbled for the answer machine.

It was bright, the sun coming through the covers in a light grey colour and even through them it was blinding, there was a short blissful interlude, where the warm glow of sleep encapsulated him in her warm embrace, and he felt reborn from the horror and worn out memory of the stitching. He could forget about responsibilities in the lazy haze of dream land, it's hold not quite releasing him from his unnusually peaceful slumber...

- _shit!_ shit! SHIT! It was Thursday! Peter had to have his story in today!

The teen scrambled into action knocking the answering machine clean off the nightstand and looking very much like a spider in his flailing of limbs. A shot of pain jolted through him, and the flailing limbs stilled. "AAAAAAAAARGH" peter screamed in his head, half in anger half in pain. With each round of blood pulsing through his body, peter could feel his wound pulling.

-he barely even registered the sound of the heavy machine runing out of cable mid-air, snapping and skidding across the room like a plane doing a quite spectacular emergency landing. The noise was catastrophic. Peter slowly lowered both arms down so that they where laying adjascent to his body,or tried to, they didn't really reach his sides, the covers obstructing them.

With a flourish he gruffly flung the covers aside. Staring at the celing like a nun at the sky who was asking forgiveness from God,But instead he was asking for a few miunites more of the bliss he had been experiencing moments before. The teen let out a sad sigh with undertones of annoyance.

Slowly,Peter swung his body round so that he was sat on the edge of the bed _\- twang._ Just as he was about to place his feet on the floor his spidey senses went AWOL. Like a bundle of pathways in his brain had all tangled up and been electrified. He stretched his feet, said appendages hanging two inches away from the floor, they where tingling. Peter looked down-the glass from last-night. He would have to clean it up.

The youth manoeuvred himself off the bed,putting his feet around where the glass had fallen and pushing himself up, he winced as his side twinged,but managed it. He retrieved the dust-pan and brush from his forgotten wardrobe. A sad looking thing made out of canvas. The clothes hanging like miserable headless puppets-and quickly crouched,sweeping up the detritus shards until he had made a little pile, he dumped it in the bin,tossing the tools back into the wardrobe, miraculously they landed right in it.

Without a thought he dumped the broken answering machine in the bin. It made a few startled angry beeps before the sound petered out, as if it was hanging on to life. It was completely broken, the wires dissconnected and a button loose…

Uncle Ben would have been able to fix it. Uncle Ben fixed everything, from boilers to bicycles. He'd fixed peter's once. A boy at school had broken it, puncturing the tyres and spraying the word 'fagit' onto the bodywork. Peter had been upset, but not in the way the bully had wanted him to be. He'd got it as a birthday present off uncle ben and aunt may and didn't care about what the kid had said. It was stupid. He was upset because it covered up the signiture from his favourite avenger, Captain America.

He didn't know how they'd got it, wether the story of him walking past the bike shop with a coffee and wide eyes for all that had changed scince the 40's was true, but peter didn't care, they'd gotten him CAPTAIN AMERICA'S signature!. He was done, he could retire, everything was going his way…

Until that. That 's why he'd been so upset, he didn't think captain america would come out of the tower just to sign his bike again. He wasn't dying so he couldn't just phone the make a wish foundation and ask for another one.

A week later, there was a note on the kitchen table, it said, 'look in the garage'. He had read it twice, eying it with a little bit of trepadition and a little distrust just as a small unexpected thrill of excitement thrummed through him. He opened the garage lock with his key,tilting the door up into the sliding holds -and his breath was taken away.

There was his old bike-well,some of it. The paintwork had been re-done, red and blue with the old captain america comics he had inherited from his uncle painted onto it. The dark angular lines and distressed quality of the captains suit quite grown up and sophisticated in their application. Cap's shield, peter noted happily, arking through the air leaving behind a black slash.

The tires had been replaced with much larger ones, ones now able to really support his weight well(he just kept on growing ,and with height comes weight) and that would no doubt allow him to go much faster. The handlebars had been replaced with a shiny alloy set of seemingly ram horned ones. It was a racing bike,and peter loved it. The boy noted with a little laugh that there was a little bell on the left handle in the shape of his hero's shield.,,

he recalled that time fondly sometimes, times when he missed his aunt being happier, more care-free, when his uncle was alive. Times when he just wanted a nice surprise rather than the surprise being jumped in an alley by thugs out for money. Uncle ben was like a vital part in peters heart, and without him it was failing. he missed the way he could just fix everything, in more ways than one. He longed to be the one who made everything better, all the hurt go away.

But peter wasn't uncle ben. Peter didn't fix things, he just stopped things from getting a little more broken. In a city full of broken hearts and sin and anger… but also love and affection and loyalty, just to make the bad hurt even more.

He had felt his uncle's loss keenly, like a gaping scar larger than even the wound he bore now. There WAS happiness in his life. He laughed at his boss when he stubbed his toe on his desk and peter could hear him shuffling around and shouting at the wall, and when a cheeky toddler was wiping her food all over her high chair in the park, unbeknownst to the poor mother, ever patient, who instead of getting angry laughed and started to clean her child up.

The rain made him smile sometimes. Because the pigeons would all come and rest across his balcony,sheltering from the rain, and he could see just one turned to face him with those funny squinty eyes and jerky head. Like one old woman in a group of head mistresses from the victorian era in lacy coats, sizing up what a silly human he was.

And he smiled when the barrister at his favourite coffee shop called him hun because he was from england and had taken a liking to him. He always had a smile for peter,and he outright snorted into his coffee when that same barrister turned to the other and started outright flirting with him, using the worst pickup lines ever and making the other man who was new a little uncomfortable. Peter wasn't gay, but he still liked the barista, and he had done nothing more than be pleasant to him and nothing to imply he liked peter in that way. The coffee was good too.

Peter planned on going off on an indirect quest to that same coffee shop later that day, but first. He really, REALLY, had to hand in that story…

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Peter shrugged on a shirt, sighing half in annoyance half resignation at the pain in his side. he limped slowly over to his work desk, situated on the far wall beneath a large window overlooking the city.

The view was stunning, peaceful even, the hustle of the traffic below cut out from the picturesque slice of the city the window liked it high up, height meant safety

it was an idealistic view, a tiny rectangle cutting out all of the derelict more squat buildings down below, and closed down corner shops he knew where just outside his the streets as far as he could see, until he reached the richer more maintained streets.

however he allowed himself a small smile at the beauty of this view, even though he knew it wasn't real. He knew it wasn't, he knew from his job, it was called confirmation bias, using a few facts and statistics to support their view whilst ignoring all of the facts against this an unrealistic picture. It was stupid, it was like taking a photograph of a corner shop purposefully cutting out a homeless man sleeping in the doorway. It was a lie.

He fumbled for a few moments with his pen-drive, sticking out of his laptop like a permanent fixture. It was stiff, it kept sticking in the retrieved he walked unsteadily past his tv , using it as a support and to the bathroom, well FUCK, he thought eyeing himself with trepidation in the mirror, he really didn't look any better- large bruises where that thug had grabbed him marking his skin, they had turned an even deeper shade of purple than before- he would have to cover that.

He brushed his teeth solemnly, all the time frowning at his pitiful should have been more careful, ' but how did I know they knew where I lived?' Peter jibed at the unwanted thought, arguing with himself.

He felt like a ghost, his face still pale ever since the stabbing, his tummy rumbled and he looked down in surprise, eyebrows raising-oh.

He'd pick something up after dropping off his story, on his way to the coffee shop.

Peter didn't really have friends, he had acquaintances, the guy at his coffee shop who always gave him a large coffee instead of a regular with no extra pizza delivery boy who'd once caught a glimpse of one of his scars when he'd been wearing a tank by accident as he answered the door( he'd been forced to explain the scars to the enthralled younger boy, edited versions of the tales of course), the boy thought he was some sort of spy.

Peter had only told him about 'muggings' and 'robberies' but the boy had made up his own ideas, he had once brought him a whole pizza for free and they'd sat there on the bed eating it as there was only one chair in the room, peter awkwardly telling stories about his 'muggings'.

The girl at the checkout at wall-mart who never asked why he bought so many plain t shirts but he knew wanted to, giving him a student discount even though she knew full well he wasn't one. Or the lady at the front desk at work who was not much older than thirty but always seemed to him like such a motherly figure, slipping him cans of diet coke from beneath her desk ,to help get him through the day when he was working on an important story that needed to be done 'yesterday'.

Peter fumbled with the cabinet, finally finding a skin coloured bottle, and smeared some of the pasty liquid over the cuts on his face with shaking hands. That's better, he set it down on the counter and practised his smile in the mirror. It hurt his face, and looked unnatural even to his eyes. He practised for a while until finally it was somewhat convincing.

Peter headed out the door reaching up towards the coat stand and carefully wrapping a blue and grey scarf around his neck. He grabbed his satchel dropping his pen-drive and keys into it and headed outside.

Using the elevator for the first time since he first moved in, and realised with young legs it was quicker to take the stairs, peter stood in the elevator, holding on to the bar forlornly. The elevator shook and he winced, but thankfully kept going. The elevator was always undergoing repairs. Or stopping, peter just didn't think the stairs where an option right now.

The wind was ice when he stepped out of his apartment block,

Peter strolled down the street, moving slowly but with purpose amongst the tide of human traffic, sidestepping a homeless man sat in the gutter and feeling his heart clench. but knowing there was nothing he could do. Where was Tony Stark now? The man with all the answers. He was up in his tower 500 story's up with his expensive toys, ignoring those in the gutter.

At least peter tried, and made some difference, cleaning the streets of muggers and rapists and Thugs. While all the time the man with all the money. The one who could make a difference and really help the homeless sat in his tower doing God knows what. Peter looked up at the gleaming tower, a stark contrast to the grey neglected streets of this area of town. And frowned sadly.

Peter was getting closer to the centre of town. And the smell of Costa and Starbucks Coffee was meandering down the streets and into his nose. Delicious. Peter was in favour of anything that forced his exhausted body to behave, and coffee was a vice he was not about to give up anytime soon.

As the shops became more mainstream, dominated by big chains and greedy businesses peter knew he was almost there. As the large glass doors of his work came into view peter breathed a sigh of relief.

All at once a woman carrying a bag of groceries collided with him. He couldn't see her face as the large brown paper bag obscured it, but he could see she was wearing a red duffle coat and classic converse sneakers. Two oranges, a pack of grapes, and a tin of soup went flying. Time slowed, and his spidey senses kicked in. in the blink of an eye the lady's groceries were arranged neatly back in the bag, perhaps more neatly than before.

There was a muffled "thank you!" from the lady, before she disappeared in a flurry of outrageously coloured pink and purple scarf and matching bobble hat. Peter rarely got any thanks, but was sure this time it wasn't out of ignorance he had been forgotten. The lady looked like she needed all the help she could get.

Peter groaned grasping at his side, "way to go peter, aggravate the wound more!" Peter thought to himself. He sighed as the pain turned to a dull throb, and pushed through the double doors of his work place.

Peter waved at the receptionist, who smiled kindly at him before waving him over as if it was terribly urgent. She was a kind looking lady, with blonde hair pinned up into a fancy looking bun and she was wearing bright red lipstick and black mascara. There was a pashmina around her neck, otherwise detracting from the business like aura she exuded what with her turquoise suit jacket and fancy makeup.

"One for the road" she said, and winked, smiling impishly. There was a few clicking sounds of plastic being broken, and a diet coke was placed on top of the fancy mahogany desk she was sat at with a clonk. "Thanks shelby" smiled peter, this random act of kindness however frequent still catching him out every time.

"How's your daughter?" he asked politely. Shelby smiled, although the exuberance was somewhat muted and her mouth was stretched far too tight. "She's being looked after by the babysitter, her asthma is acting up again, but ya know, she's ok" Peter knew Shelby wanted to spend more time with her daughter, and it was especially hard for her to stay at work when she knew her daughter was ill, knowing she had to work to keep food on the table.

"I'm sorry about that" said peter sincerely, and Shelby smiled sadly but thankfully, looking at the clock and flinching. Blue eyes flickered finally landing on him "Anyway kid, you'd best be off, I know how the boss man gets when it's time for you to hand in your stories"

"Yeah, Don't I know all too well" peter agreed, grimacing.

" he must know how popular they are" added Shelby, with a sweet motherly smile that reminded him of aunt may. Peter felt something catch in his throat, and his chest grow heavy. He was rarely given compliments, and this was making him feel a little emotional. Thoughts of aunt may flashing through his mind like lightning but twice as painful. Times when Aunt May took to bigging him up on the days when he really didn't want to go into school and face the bullies. Times where she made him a special dinner just because he'd been "doing so well at school!".

Peter cleared his throat, ignoring the tightness there, "thanks Shelby, I owe you one" he said. With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Grasping the can with cold numb fingers crossing the floor, and getting in the elevator to his floor.

Shelby wondered not for the first time why the boy was so sad, and made a note to herself that she needed to buy more diet coke.

Peter slumped in the elevator, and all too soon he was on the right floor, the doors opening to a cacophony of voices and rustling of paper. Peter sidestepped a very harried looking woman juggling two cups of coffee and several sheets of paper that were wedged between them, she looked quite upset. Oh dear. Peter knew that meant the boss wasn't in such a good mood.

Peter navigated the zoo like scene slowly with care so's not to aggravate his wounds. But found himself slowing to almost a stop when he reached his boss' glass cubicle, JJ was grasping a wad of paper in his hand, making wild gestures and bellowing red faced at a young man he'd never seen before. He was holding a portfolio case and looked about he was about to bolt from fear.

Next moment JJ was slamming his coffee cup aside onto the floor with one fell sweep standing up and launching the crumpled up paper at the boys face. "GET OOOTTTA MY OFFIIIICEEE!" screamed his boss, red in the face and a vein pulsing on his forehead. The movement startled the boy and he bolted, nearly colliding with peter on his swift exit from the office "he's crazy!" he screamed. Face so pale and haggard. Peter sighed, he sure was.

Peter looked back into the office, JJ was looking right at him, face read and livid, he gestured aggressively with his whole arm for peter to entered. Peter had barely closed the door when his boss was addressing him. "Now kid" he said, fishing a long thick cigar out of his shirt pocket "three guesses what that was all about" peter racked his brain, but before he even had a chance to think his boss answered his own question " I was trying to replace you. Your head has been in the clouds lately!" peter grimaced, he had hoped JJ hadn't noticed, but deep down he had knew he'd almost missed deadlines on two occasions, and been late for work twice too. He was a fool if he thought his awful boss wouldn't notice.

"So i do some research, find a kid about your age, some talent, a viable replacement- or so i THOUGHT, but he turns out to even more incompetent than YOU, if even that's possible!"

Peter didn't say anything, he didn't have the energy to argue. This made JJ calm down a little mistaking it for obedience. He reached into his pocket for a lighter and lit his cigar, putting his feet up at his large imposing desk, a tall trail of smoke winding its way around the office. "Well kid lucky for you you're slightly less incompetent than the kid I interviewed for your job!"

He rocked back for a while, taking a few deep drags of the cigar, "WELL DON'T JUST STAND THERE! SHOW ME YOUR STORY!" peter scrambled with the laptop at his boss' desk, snatching the USB out of his pocket and inserting it into the port.

Twenty minutes later a very haggard peter was exiting the building with a tired but happy wave at Shelby, in search of coffee.

Peter followed the smell of coffee to his favourite coffee shop, entering with a crisp ring of the bell that hung just above the doorway. His favourite Barista was at the till, as soon as he looked up and saw peter his whole face lit up "well how are you hun? Haven't seen you in a while"

"I haven't been out in a while" admitted peter, walking over to his favourite spot in the place, a quiet corner with an arm chair, in perfect view of the subtitled flat screen tv that perched on the opposite wall. There weren't many people in at the moment, which meant the baristas probably didn't mind coming over, it was a small place anyway, so peter could easily call out his order without moving.

There was some shuffling, then the barista's head popped up over the counter once more, hands emerging too with cakes that were swiftly placed under the glass bowls arranged neatly along the counter.

"So honey, what would you like today?" he asked sweetly, brown curls bobbing to the left as his head tilted in inquiry.

"Oh…" said peter, still unused to the kindness of the barista, "a Chi Butter truffle late please" asked peter. Reluctantly taking his gaze away from the television. He found he couldn't look away, every minute there was someone he could be saving, but in his condition…

He couldn't, it was just impossible, he was way too weak, and he didn't have any sort of healing powers like Thor or Captain America. The truth of the matter was that He'd be no use to anybody dead.

Peter was startled out of his reverie by a clinking noise as the young barista placed his late on the table. It was in a filter jug, as usual, with the coffee cup separate. Peter smiled openly at the boy, wrapping numb fingers around the warm coffee jug "thank you" he said gratefully.

"Whenever you need to talk hun" said the barista, smiling a little tightly. Peter was always alone. The barista felt sorry for him, and wondered why such a friendly person never came in with a friend, a boyfriend, a girlfriend? Anyone. It was just him. Always alone, Chris sighed- distracting himself by clearing away used coffee cups and wiping down tables. It was a lonely city. And spider man, the only hero he knew actually doing something about the city hadn't been spotted in days, he hoped he was ok. Ding! Went the doorbell, oh-another customer.

Peter was watching the news when the lady on the screen was interrupted we interrupt this broadcast to report a disturbance in central city-

The film cut to a disturbing image, a creature clad in red with knotted muscles moving much like a spider, attacking civilians.

\- the avengers are currently developing an antidote, the creature is seemingly unstoppable, civilians are being evacuated and encouraged to stay inside their homes

Peter had heard enough, when it cut to a video of doctor banner from the avengers being interviewed.

We believe it is a symboyite, much like the one that transformed spider man a while ago, and it has once again gained a host.

Tv presenter-Dr Banner,do you like some of the other avengers are rumoured to believe, that it could be spider man again this time?

Banner became visibly uncomfortable, scratching one arm with the other and biting his lip.

There is evidence to support this, the creature must have a host, and moves in a similar way, we won't know until we gather some matter and complete some tests

The footage cut back to the lady again.

\- well we don't know yet, but… am I hearing this correctly

The lady was fiddling with her ear piece.

The police are ordering for the incarceration of spider man, claiming that there is no way of knowing if he has … what is that word?... bonded with the monster symboyite.

Peter had heard enough. There was no way he was going to the avengers for help. If the only respect they had for him was to doubt him.

The police now wanted to incarcerate him, and the avengers where doing nothing as usual, peter had no choice...

He was going to fight the creature. He left his coffee untouched, and was gone in an instant, leaving Chris the barista sick with worry. What was wrong with peter? Was he ok?

The short answer was no, peter was not ok.

tbc


End file.
